Spring blooms across the land, thawing his cold bones and revitalizing him.
For once, he is solid and whole as he runs across the kingdom. He shows no traces of transparency and doesn’t hover above the sloping grounds. He is as he was born: flesh and bone and muscle. It feels good, too. The young stallion breathes heavily as his legs coil and release with each stride. He can’t focus on anything but the task at hoof as he makes his way across the kingdom. Each rock and dip in the ground garners his full attention. Ramiel’s glad to relinquish his mind to any state other than its usual fullness. He’s happy not to think about ghosts and family and the load of his own responsibilities, at least for a spell. It’s a relief to feel his own weight being held down by gravity and his own volition rather than the heaviness of the crown atop his head.
It can’t last for long, of course, but it’s enough to recharge him.
He slows from a gallop to a canter, then further from a trot to a walk. He means to make his way to the river for refreshment after such punishing exercise, but a foreign smell diverts his path to its source. Fortunately, it’s still cool enough that he isn’t completely doused in sweat when he sees the stranger topping a hill, but his coat does glisten under the bright spring sun. The Dale has had a string of visits from the other lands lately, and Ramiel is starting to learn the distinctively scent of each one. He’s meant to travel to all of them alongside the diplomats in order to see them for himself, but winter had stunted many of their plans. He realizes he cannot place this scent, however. Another one to learn, he thinks, moving upwards towards the other.
Ramiel isn’t even halfway up the hill when he realizes his own exhaustion. His run had taken the wind out of his sails, at least physically. He feels the familiar creeping sensation of his flesh fading away as he becomes opaque. Now, the steep incline is hardly a challenge at all. He floats up the lush hillside, rising to meet the diplomat with an easy smile when he can see her. “Hello and welcome to the Dale.” Still rather thirsty, his voice sounds gravelly and uneven in the fresh air. Almost spooky, he thinks, grinning inwardly. “I’m Ramiel,” he says, settling himself back firmly on the ground. The foreigner is quite pretty, but he is sure she is here on business, so he keeps his smile more polite than appreciative. “What can I do for you?”
Ramiel
ghost king of the dale